The Simple Life

Weather or Not

Gigi Vorgan — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 21:57:01 +0000

When you live in California, it's always another year of drought. No matter how many deluges of flooding rain you've waded through during the winter, the following summer you can't water your lawn because of draught.

Every weatherperson I could find on the radio, television, internet and newspaper yesterday predicted rain for Los Angeles today. A huge storm was moving in last night and lasting all through today and into tomorrow. I was ready. I went to the market. I didn't have my hair blown out. I bought my kids those dreaded new rain coats and gotten rid of the ones they'd grown out of three years ago. I wanted to wake up to the sound of raindrops falling into my swimming pool.

But I woke up to find my pool deck dry as dust. Not a drop had fallen in the night and I doubted there would be any rain today at all. And I had actually turned off my sprinklers for this. A person's lawn could go yellow waiting for a flood with misinformation from the weathergirl on channel 9.

They must do it to play psychological games with those of us who are thirsty in these draught-ridden states. Where do they get their information from anyway? Those silly maps they stand in front of? And those grey clouds outside are getting lighter every minute - the sun will probably pop out and I didn't have my hair blown out. I suppose my dopamine reward system has been deprived of its anticipated tweaking and my wish for a quiet afternoon reading in front of the fireplace with rain falling outside will have to be replaced by a hairdresser appointment.

Gigi Vorgan is the co-writer of iBrain, HarperCollins, 2008. For more information see http://www.drgarysmall.com.

Being There

Gigi Vorgan — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 14:36:49 +0000

I've known her longer than any other friend - since the third grade. We may not jaw on the phone everyday, or even go out to dinner every month, but when we do get together we connect like no time has passed at all. We either laugh our heads off or cry our eyes out - sometimes both. There are no secrets too embarrassing to tell because we already know the unspeakable about each other. Childhood misadventures, college antics, dating fiascos, family woes, kid-raising traumas - nothing is secret between us. I cringe when I think of the horrid things she could tell my husband about me.

And now her husband has cancer. Not the friendly kind you can treat and live with for 30 years, but the pancreatic kind that makes your wife a widow in 12 weeks. But he's already beaten the odds and lived through eight months of chemo. And they're about to travel from Los Angeles to Baltimore to have the remaining tumor taken out by a surgeon who is world renowned in removing pancreatic tumors. When I heard they were schlepping there, I remember thinking that with all the fine doctors in Los Angeles, why would they turn their lives and their kids' lives upside down by going to Baltimore for the surgery and recovery? She always was a little nutty...

Then came the call. "My friend Lilly was supposed to come, but something came up," my friend said. Now no one was coming with them. No one would sit with her in the hospital and hold her hand and say it's going to be okay. No one would go get her coffee and a candy bar too - what the hell. Her parents were dead and her brothers were "indisposed," as were her husbands' entire family. Other than their kids, she would be sweating it out in that hospital - across the nation - alone. Shit. "I'm coming," I heard someone with my voice say. I looked around to make sure I'd heard that right. She was ecstatic, "Are you sure? Gary won't mind? Can you take off work? Will your kids be okay? I can't believe it! I need you so much! Thank you so much!"

There was no turning back. I booked a ticket to Baltimore. Blowing off work was a given. My daughter would have to drive my son around (which she hates) and my husband would have to figure out dinner for a few nights. But as the day approached, instead of dreading it, I found myself looking forward to it. I was glad I was going. I would get her more coffee and candy bars than she could swallow, dammit. Besides, if I didn't go, I'd be calling non-stop anyway. And I've learned by now that some opportunities come up in life when putting yourself out there for someone else makes your own life more meaningful - if you can just recognize those moments in time. And if you don't seize those opportunities, they're gone forever - you may never get another chance to make things right with an elderly parent, or spend more time with your children while they're young, or go to Baltimore to hold your friend's hand.

And his surgery was a walloping success. They had to check the charts to make sure they had opened up the right patient because they could hardly see a dot on his pancreas. We all celebrated together when they told us he might outlive us all. And my friend and I had those candy bars and a bunch of champagne too. She needed me to share her joy and relief. And even if things had gone the other way, she would have needed me - even more. I was there. And I feel great.

Gigi Vorgan is co-author of with Dr. Gary Small of "iBrain: Surviving the Technical Alteration of the Modern Mind" (Harper-Collins, October, 2008) as well as several other books. Visit http://www.drgarysmall.com/ for more information.

Con Artist

Gigi Vorgan — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 16:26:08 +0000

"He stopped short, Mommy, right in front of me," my daughter blurted through the phone. I knew from the moment she called me "Mommy" that something was up.

She continued, "I braked but I couldn't stop..."

"And?" I was forced to ask.

"We had an accident." She croaked, her voice breaking into a sob.

"Was anybody hurt?" I asked, concerned.

"No," she replied. "You know I love you."

"So, you rear-ended the guy," I said, getting angry. "What was he driving?"

"A taxi," she managed to get out through her victimized whaling. "Can we talk about it when I get home? I'm on my way."

My mind was spinning with the possible dollar amounts my insurance might go up now that my 17 year-old had been at fault in an accident. Goodbye Louboutan shoes, goodbye... I'll be too old to wear you when this is over.

When Rachel got home she had a renewed sense of confidence, "I got his information, Mom, and I took pictures with my phone!" Unfortunately, she had only taken down the other drivers' first name and phone number, and the photos were of her car, not his.

"Rachel, honey, we have your car. We know the damage. It's the other guy's car we need the photo of to make sure he doesn't damage it worse after your accident." Her slight nod and faraway look gave me slim hope that she understood. Raising a teenage daughter is definitely not mentioned in What to Expect When You're Expecting.

Rachel told me that the damage to the taxi was almost nothing, so I decided to call the guy and see if we could settle this without involving insurance companies. He was more than happy to go that route. In fact, in the two hours since the accident, he claimed to have gotten three estimates on repairing his fender, the cheapest one being an even $500, which, of course, he insisted on receiving in cash if I wanted to keep my insurance company out of it.

My business manager faxed over a release she kept on file for clients with teenage drivers. She advised me to get the cabbie to sign the form before handing over the cash.

The drop point was set for the next day - Denny's at noon, the back booth in the corner. I thought of wearing a fedora and a rose in my lapel, but my t-shirt didn't have a lapel and I wasn't sure anybody still sold fedoras.

I got to Denny's early, and I was halfway through my pancakes when I spotted him approaching my booth. I knew immediately from his triumphant smirk that my daughter had been scammed. This guy must troll Westwood, stopping short in front of little college girls whose daddy's would pay cash.

He sat down and asked for the money. He was surprised when I pulled out the release form and said "Why does it have to be so complicated? Why not just say your girl hit me, you paid $500, and you will never sue me?"

"Because I am paying you. You're the one that has to agree not to sue me." I said exasperated.

"No, no, no," he said. "You could come back in ten months and sue my company for injuries.

"Fine," I said. Forget the money I have in my purse and just go. Call my insurance company and have a good time doing it. Goodbye." I went back to my pancakes and tried not to look at him to see if he was going call my bluff.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Just write on that paper that you won't sue me either." I flipped both of our copies over and wrote that we wouldn't pursue any litigation against him. He was satisfied and we both signed. I gave him the money and expected him to leave, but that's when he went into a diatribe: "You know your girl hit me hard. She didn't put on her brakes. She pushed me into traffic. And worst of all, my back has been hurting ever since."

I had to control my laughter. He sure picked a strange time to start complaining - after we had just signed full releases. Luckily my phone rang and I told him I had to take it, goodbye. He left quickly, probably to go out and troll for his next mark.

"Hello?" I said into the phone.

"Hi, Mommy?" my daughter asked.

"Yes..." I said with trepidation.

"You know I love you..." she said.

You're Only Young As You Feel

Gigi Vorgan — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:24:33 +0000

I was savoring my ritual cappuccino across the street from my dentist's office as I did every time I went there, when this incredibly handsome young guy sat down two tables over. Our eyes met and he smiled seductively. I practically choked on my biscotti. I could have sworn I knew him from somewhere... But it wasn't the gym... He sipped his sparkling water and gave me a little wave. I felt myself blushing like a teenager. Where the heck could I know him from? He was so young. And I have been married a long time.

Oh my God, I thought, as he started to walk over. Could this amazing hunk possibly be hitting on me? Ridiculous. No way! I could be his mother. Thank God in heaven I just had my teeth cleaned.

He grinned broadly and said, "Hi! Remember me?!" I was at a complete loss. I was definitely going to have my memory checked. He went on, "I'm Andy!" Andy Carter!" Carter... Carter... from the tennis club? He continued, "I was on your son's basketball team in middle school." I sat there frozen with an absurd smile on my face and a sudden urge to evaporate into thin air.

Age reminders happen to everyone at some point. It could be as simple as the appearance of a single grey hair, the first time someone calls you "ma'am," or perhaps walking into a room and forgetting the reason why. None of us can stop time, but we can slow down the aging effects - and sometimes even reverse them. Can anyone here spell BOTOX?

A mere 100 years ago, people were lucky to live beyond the age of 40. Now, modern medical science is striving to keep us alive well into our nineties and beyond, and most people say they want to live as long as possible. But who wants to live to be 100 without their health, vitality, and faculties intact? And frankly, who wants to look 90, when you can be taken for a strapping 84? That's where lifestyle choices come in. The key to healthy longevity, according to UCLA aging specialist Dr. Gary Small, is to keep it all together - our brains, our bodies, and our attitudes.

For our brains, he suggests keeping them young and agile with puzzles and other challenges such as learning a foreign language or taking up a new hobby like painting. For our bodies, it's the old ‘use it or lose it' theory - a 10 to 20 minute walk each day is enough to keep the cardiovascular system in shape. Of course, more is better. And attitude, well, it's like the old Jefferson Airplane lyric, "You're only pretty as you feel."

De-Clutter Your Life

Gigi Vorgan — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 16:53:39 +0000

My girlfriend was in from New York and stood in my bathroom convulsing in laughter, "You don't have shampoo? Not any?" She sputtered.

"Well, no. You can use the kids'." I said. For some reason this made her laugh even harder and she had to sit down on my mini-glass-tiled tub surround. "I get my hair blow-dried twice a week, and I don't see why I should clutter my cabinets with hundreds of hair products I never use. I just threw everything out." It seemed perfectly reasonable to me when I did it. Maybe not so much right now.

I was at the end of a month-long de-cluttering bender, and my house looked like one of those model homes - no piles of anything, anywhere. Even my closet was color-coded and everything was hung on new, dark-brown wooden hangers. I may have gone a little crazy there - they cost a fortune - but they looked really cool. And organized! I had always wanted to be organized but never seemed to quite get there. Life constantly put something in my way that was more important than organizing. And so the clutter grew. Kitchen drawers so full of junk we could never find a pen; candles, vases, bowls and frames we had been given were crowded on every surface; magazines I'd already read but had to save were piled by every sofa and my bed, and the pantry didn't have room for a box of jello because it was filled with important things like cans of tuna from 1979.

I had a break between projects - also known as being unemployed - and I decided this was my chance to finally get rid of the clutter around me, which tended to make me nervous and down. I was running out of steam by the time I got to my office, and I have to admit, right now, that I never got to my t-shirt and jeans drawers, but no one's perfect.

I was so proud of my new Zen-empty house that I insisted my book club meet at my place. My club is made up of my old friend Carol from school and mostly newer friends. I got my children and husband out of the house for the evening and actually considered baking a cake - but that passed. I mean, there's a perfectly good bakery right down the street.

Some of the women were late, and my friend Carol, who showed up first, didn't even notice how I'd de-cluttered the place. When I told her, she hardly reacted; except to open a kitchen drawer and tell me it's too bad I didn't get to the drawers, too. Carol was starting to bug me a little lately. She only called when she needed something, which was often, and she relished in any bad news I had to share. Good news not so much. I offered her a piece of coffee-cake, but she declined - too fattening. She did say I should have some.

Two women didn't show at all, so we decided to get started. The book was Eat, Pray, Love, which I hated (okay, I'm ready for the hate mail), and everybody else loved it - such a wonderful experience to share with the author; an amazing soul-searching and self-discovering trip through the world; blah, blah, blah. Carol loved it more than anyone. After about ten minutes of discussing the book, the meeting turned into a gripe session about husbands and kids. I tried to get us back on track, at least to pick the next book, but it was impossible.

I was relieved when they left. I realized that my friendship with Carol had changed in the last couple of years, and now it seemed like she took much more energy from me than she gave back. Being around her was bringing me down and making me uneasy, a lot like the clutter in my house did. I suddenly recognized that I had to de-clutter my life, too. Just as we spend extra time and energy working in the cluttered environments we create in our homes and our work spaces, many of us waste our precious free time and energy on people that no longer make our lives better; in fact, they may diminish the quality of our lives.

De-cluttering our lives means cutting out the people that we keep around us out of habit, but who actually bring us down. And putting those piles of old magazines we'll never look at again in the recycling bin helps, too.

Gigi Vorgan is co-author with Dr. Gary Small of "iBrain: Surviving the Technological Alteration of the Modern Mind" (HarperCollins, October, 2008) as well as several other books. Visit www.DrGarySmall.com for more information.

Love, Honey

Gigi Vorgan — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 15:18:36 +0000

"Hi Honey,

I just remembered that it's my parent's anniversary on Friday, and we really should take them out to dinner. That means we have to cancel on Val and Stuart. Can you make the call? I'm tied up in meetings all day. Thanks.

Love,

Honey"

I sent that e-mail to my husband more than an hour ago and still no reply. I'm starting to get annoyed because I really do have a meeting coming up. I know he won't be thrilled to go out with my parents again, but I don't want to have to call and cancel Val and Stuart - they're really his friends, anyway. "Bing." I hear the familiar sound of an incoming e-mail and quickly change screens to check it out. It was from him.

"Friday's fine to take out your parents. I'll call Val and Stu."

That's what's so great about e-mail - straight answers with no confusion. Apparently, he had no objections to another family dinner, and he was okay with calling off our friends. But something was glaringly missing from his response. He answered me clearly enough, and I got the answer I wanted. So what was bugging me? What was wrong? Oh, now I see it - he didn't sign off with "Love, Honey." He must really be pissed at me. Am I going to have to buy something sexy to wear to bed tonight? Or should I tell him to forget about my parents and we'll stick with Val and Stuart. But that's ridiculous - he was probably in a hurry and just forgot to write "Love, Honey." But we always write "Love, Honey" at the end of our e-mails. That's our little thing.

When I first met Gary 20 years ago at a Memorial Day barbeque, we had an immediate connection. I noticed him from across the patio, with his shaggy brown hair and sweet smile. He charmed me with his disarming humor and warmth. I wouldn't kiss him on our first date, but I definitely did on our second. I didn't know it then, but I had found my soul mate.

Over the years, we always called each other "Honey" - on birthday cards, phone calls, e-mails, even when yelling across the house. A dropped "Honey," or God forbid, the use of the more formal "Gigi," meant that something was up, a definite red flag that all was not well in Honeyland. It could simply mean the sudden disappearance of the remote control or perhaps a home printer jam (my specialty,) or what I dreaded the most, something I had done.

Maybe I was being neurotic, but I couldn't stop thinking that Gary's last e-mail with the omission of "Love, Honey" was a glaring sign that something was wrong. I know my parents had been challenging lately, but we'd seen Val and Stuart a lot. What's the big deal, one little dinner with my parents? No, I'm not going to call him to see if he was angry. He already agreed and it's done. I need to get on with my work. I have a book to revise, a million e-mails, plus meetings all day. But I can't resist. I come up with another reason to type him a note:

"Gary,

Approving cover for new book. Check out the attached pdf. Do you think the orange is too light? It makes me want to eat a Creamcicle. Let me know your thoughts.

Gigi"

No "love." No "honey." Now he'll know I know he has overreacted. I press send and immediately experience e-mailer's remorse. I didn't need to lower myself to his level. What was I thinking? He's probably freaking out over an iPhone crisis or maybe he's working in the PET scan lab, or maybe he's laying near death in a hospital emergency room somewhere... I'm about to pick up the phone to make sure he's okay when "bing," here comes another e-mail. I write a quick response and hear five more bings. I answer a few more as the familiar bombardment of e-mails both comforts and distracts me. I feel an uncontrollable urge to find out what each new e-mail is about. It could be Gary groveling for forgiveness, a new book offer, Stockholm calling about the Nobel Prize, or yet another opportunity to make millions if I would only give up my social security number to some stranger across the globe.

I look back at my last e-mail to Gary and feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe I was too hard on him. I think what's really bothering me is that we're so used to connecting with each other whenever we want, and then, all of a sudden today, I'm cut off. I remember the days before the onslaught of technology, when people didn't communicate with each other instantly from moment to moment. We somehow managed to get by with busy signals, snail mail, and actually talking in person. Now we use e-mail and texting not just to get our work done, but to stay in touch with each other at all times, throughout the day. I've gotten so used to it that I almost panic when my server goes down. I feel like I'm stranded on a desert island . . . with no BlackBerry.

Although it's easy to knock out quick e-mails, they still can't convey the subtleties of direct social contact, the non-verbal cues, body language and facial expressions. "Love, Honey" takes care of that for Gary and me. It adds the smile and sometimes even the kiss. Could it be that without "Love, Honey" we are lost in a world of strangers e-mailing their mundane needs? I suddenly come to my senses and write him another quick e-mail:

"Hi Honey,

I'm sorry I was so short in my last note. I love you, but where the hell are you?

LOVE,

HONEY!"

The note was to the point. Okay, so I let some of my frustration spill out, but Gary can take it.

Nothing. Another freaking hour of work and still no response from him. So what if I shouldn't have used ALL CAPS at the end. I know it comes off as if I'm shouting and hostile. Okay, maybe now I'm the one who is overreacting. Before I dash off to my 1:30 lunch, I try one more time.

"Hi Honey,

Sorry about the silly notes. I'm crazy with pressure today.

Love, Honey"

At lunch, my friend notices I'm preoccupied. "Are you going to eat your food or stare at your phone?" I apologize and notice several other people in the restaurant fiddling with their PDAs. I begin to realize why I've felt this ridiculous panic all day. Is it possible that our habitual BlackBerry behavior has created yet another unnecessary opportunity to be misunderstood and to feel insecure in love? Before I can take a bite of my sandwich, my BlackBerry starts to vibrate with a new message. As I read the e-mail, I recalled the shaggy brown hair and sweet smile of my soul mate. Maybe I would stop and buy a little something special to wear tonight.

"Hi Honey,

Sounds like you're having a rough day. I just spent the morning lecturing to a couple hundred neurologists. Good times. Sorry I forgot my iPhone at the office.

Love,

Honey"